By the time I got home, the clock had already given up on being polite.
It was almost midnight.
The house was dark — quiet enough that I could hear my own heartbeat echoing in my head. The kind of silence that makes you question whether you're intruding on it.
I loosened my tie and dropped my jacket on the couch, sighing as I stared at the faint light flickering under Sienna's door. She was still awake. Of course she was.
For a second, I debated whether to knock or not. I didn't want to wake her if she had fallen asleep with the light on again — but curiosity won. It always does.
I knocked softly. "Sienna?"
No answer.
I turned the knob quietly and peeked in.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, hair down, still in her nightshirt. Her phone was in her hand, but the screen was black. She looked like she'd been staring into space for hours.
"You're still up?" I asked.
She startled a little, eyes flicking toward me before she looked away. "You said you'd be late."
"I did," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Didn't say I'd be this late."
Her lips twitched — maybe almost a smile. Maybe not.
I stepped into the room and noticed the untouched plate of food on her nightstand. "You didn't eat?"
"I wasn't hungry."
I frowned. "You said that yesterday too."
She crossed her arms. "I'm not a child, Cyrus."
"Could've fooled me," I murmured, picking up the plate. "Because if you were an adult, you'd know starving yourself wasn'tthe best choice."
That earned me a glare.
"Now, you are sulking," I said, walking toward the kitchen. "Come on."
I heard her scoff behind me — but I also heard her footsteps follow.
When we got downstairs, I placed the plate on the counter and looked at her. "Sit."
She hesitated but sat anyway, fiddling with her fingers. The silence stretched again, thick and uneasy.
I poured her a glass of water, then leaned my elbows on the counter. "You've been having nightmares."
Her eyes snapped up to mine.
"How do you—?"
"I hear you," I said quietly. "Almost every night."
She looked away, biting her lip. "It's nothing."
"Sienna," I said, my voice low but firm. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not—" she stopped mid-sentence, shoulders trembling slightly. "I just… I don't remember everything. Sometimes I see things I don't understand. And it feels real."
My chest tightened.
She continued, voice shaking, "There's this woman… she keeps calling my name. And sometimes, I hear my father's voice. I can't tell if it's a memory or a dream."
I wanted to tell her then. About the truth she didn't know. About the people who betrayed her. About the weight I'd been carrying for her sake.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, I walked around the counter, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't force it," I said. "When your mind is ready, it'll remember."
She looked up at me then, eyes glassy but steady. "Why do you care so much, Cyrus?"
Ah, the question I'd been running from.
I smiled faintly, though it didn't reach my eyes. "Because someone has to."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The tension hung between us like an invisible thread — fragile but binding.
Then she whispered, "You look tired."
"I am," I admitted, finally letting my guard down. "But seeing you… makes it a little better."
That got a faint flush on her cheeks, and I couldn't help but grin.
"Go to bed, Sienna," I said softly. "I'll finish the food if you won't."
"You wouldn't dare," she said, standing up, and this time I did laugh.
"I would, and I'll even post a picture to prove it."
Her glare softened into something almost warm. "Goodnight, Cyrus."
"Goodnight," I murmured, watching as she disappeared up the stairs.
When she was gone, I sighed, leaning against the counter again.
The guilt settled heavier in my chest than ever.
Soon, she would know everything.
And when that time came… I wasn't sure how she would feel.